True Stories from an Altar Boy
by Bobby Jesus La Douche’
This is bits and pieces of actual events that I experienced as a young altar boy.
I will first say that no priest, nun or lay person in the Catholic school I attended ever did anything sexually to me nor asked me to help them out with their “needs”. So, if you are looking for more of this stuff you won’t find it here.
In our church there was a room on each side of the altar. The one side housed the priest who would put on his fancy pants outfit in there before mass. The other side was for us altar boys who also wore fluffy fancy outfits. People today would have thought they were quite gay looking. There was a passage behind the altar that connected the two rooms. There were two altar boys who would attend to each mass. We would walk to the priest’s room via the tunnel and then all three of us would enter the altar area for mass. I for the life of me didn’t know why I was doing this however my mother was involved somehow. Every time I went out there I shit nickels. Every priest except for one was a dick. No compassion here. If you forgot your Latin responses there would be trouble. You knew who the boozer priests were because of the amount of wine they made you dump in the chalice during the service. One thing for sure it was fear based in nature. Obedience through intimidation. Just like at home. I had an anxiety disorder already forming by then and serving mass was not therapeutic. You are probably wondering where I am going here so onward we go. As you may or may not know there are bags of unblessed hosts in the back room. One time I was back there and I filled my shirt pocket with hosts. Went to class and was munching on them as a snack and got caught. The nun decompensated big time and asked me what I was eating. No way I’m spilling the beans here. I did not reply after several go rounds. By then I had swallowed all the evidence. She stood me up and slapped me in the face with a ruler. Way better than fessing up about eating the body of Christ in class. I was so young that I did not know the nun was sexually frustrated. I forgive her.
I had a lay teacher in second grade. He too was a dick. Our entire class was just coming in from recess. I was ringing wet with sweat and sat down in my seat after removing my out of style jacket. About twenty minutes later I was getting the chills and feeling poorly. I wave came over me and I had to poop. I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom. Mr. Dick said no. The waves were coming stronger and I asked again and Dicky said no. The third time I just got up and headed towards the door where the teacher blocked my passage. The next chill came over me and I shit in my pants. Shit my pants in front of the entire class. Never got over that. I hope that teacher died a slow aching lonely death. No forgiveness here.
There was an old nun named Sister Jeramiah who prided herself as a mean, wicked beast who walked the halls looking for confrontation. One fine winter day the entire school was in session and in those days all the classroom doors were open. There was an ice storm in progress that afternoon and over the loudspeaker came this announcement, “Sister Jeramiah had fallen and broke her elbow” and the entire school erupted in cheers. It was a great day for the cellblock. We were firmly reprimanded.
I was in sixth grade. I had managed to make may way up to the front of the class because of my talking problems. My seat was right in front of the teacher. His name was Mr. Nedobek. He seemed old to me but was probably 22 years old and quite pimply. In those days the kids would eat in the classrooms and throw their empty milk cartons and stuff into the large trash can in the front of the room. I got bagged for talking in class shortly after lunch. I did it a second time and Mr. Pimply stood me up in front of the class and dumped the wastebasket over my head and then had me clean it up. There was all this milk and pencil shavings heaped onto my clothes.
When I got home my mom found the clothes and the story unfolded. My dad, a former POW in Japan with little patience for bullshit, got my story. I was cracked a few times for talking in class and sent to bed. We did not have a lot of money with seven in the family for anything extra.
The next day I was sitting at my desk and thought I was having an out of body experience. I saw my dad outside the classroom door and nearly collapsed. He stepped in and pulled Mr. Pimply out of the classroom by his green tie. Outside the room he told Mr. N that he wanted to know when I was out of line and he would deal with that. Then said to him that if he ruined my clothes again there would be hell to pay. Dad 1, Mr. Pimply 0, Bobby 0.
This is the best story. One of enlightenment. In those days Catholics were confirmed in fifth grade. In a nut shell there was an entire year of preparation in order to answer catechism questions if queried by the Archbishop during the confirmation service. Day in and day out we were drilled on these potential questions. Everybody worried constantly about the possibility of getting a question from the Archduke/Archbishop who was known as a hard case. Another broker of compassion.
I went through the entire confirmation service in a full sweat. Rasputin the bishop grilled several prisoners during the session. I had not been asked because I made myself invisible by pure fear. After the event the kids were brought out to the narthex of the church to greet the Archbishop. We were told to kiss his ring. Even as a fifth grader I knew this was bullshit. What a ridiculous request. How about having the Archduke kiss my ass.
Damaged yet standing,
Bobby Jesus La Douche’